Ron Bailey’s arrest had done most to fuel speculation that the president himself would soon be impeached. President Gilmore, of course, denied all knowledge of the affair. His defense; as Bilderberg was a highly secretive organization, there was no reason for him to know that Bailey, or Douglas Speak for that matter, were members of the Executive Committee. Those in the know predicted that it was a matter of weeks, days even, before the president appeared before a Grand Jury.
For Michael, the world stood still. It had been at least a couple of days since someone had tried to kill or maim him. He’d been advised not to leave the country until the investigation was over, and had spent the last two days in an FBI interview room. His bedroom had been ensuite. The more friendly of the two agents responsible for grilling him, told Michael that he was free to leave. As long as he didn’t object to leaving his passport behind. Just a formality and only for a few days. Tereza had received the same treatment.
Michael observed Elisabeth Kennedy as she covered Ralph’s chest with the additional blanket the nurse had given her. The man was at least forty years old and his mother was still treating him like a little boy. Michael felt a tinge of regret. The last time Michael had seen Ralph, he’d guiltily assumed the man would die before the embassy could get to him. As it was, although still alive, Ralph had lost his right hand. Gangrene. He was lucky not to have lost his arm, or worse. Ralph had managed to keep awake for the best part of an hour, but had now drifted off, exhausted.
“Elisabeth, we’ll wait outside,” Tereza said, grabbing Michael by the arm and leading him out of the private room. Elisabeth nodded and bent to kiss her son on the forehead as Michael and Tereza left.
The floor numbers flicked by in the elevator. Michael and Tereza lifted their eyes towards them. Like two strangers. It had been the same on the way down from New York. They’d agreed to contact Elisabeth and to hire a car for the drive down to Washington. Elisabeth herself had only gotten in from New York the day before. She’d had to endure a similar grilling, but in better class accommodation than the other two. They’d arrived in the city that morning. The car journey had been awkward and silent. Michael drove. Tereza watched the traffic go by.
“Michael, Tereza.” Elisabeth’s voice carried across the hospital lobby, “Let’s go for that coffee we talked about. There’s a great little place just across the street, Pergola. They have the best cappuccino for ten blocks.”
Elisabeth led the way.
“I’m so glad you called and came to see Ralph. He’s incredibly grateful to both of you. As am I.”
“Elisabeth, ELISABETH.” Elisabeth glanced backwards at Michael, the smile disappearing from her face, shocked at his sudden outburst.
As Michael stepped into the street, he’d noticed a beaten up chocolate brown station wagon edging slowly towards them. Ten meters away the car had begun to accelerate rapidly. It wasn’t planning on stopping.
He dove towards Elisabeth, grabbed her by the waist and pulled her with him. He swiveled his body, landing heavily on his back, the station wagon missing both of them by millimeters. Michael hit the road surface hard, but managed to lift his head just before the moment of impact. He was still on the ground when he heard the clash of metal against metal. Then the continuous wail of a horn. Elisabeth rolled off him. He lifted himself to his feet. Tereza already running towards the scene of the crash.
The station wagon had hit the rear of a parked Town Car. Tereza was standing just behind the driver’s door. Elisabeth and Michael joined her. No movement from the car. A suit on the sidewalk called nine one one.
Michael peered through the driver’s window. A man, balding, dark hair, jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt, sat hunched over the wheel. Michael didn’t recognize him. He opened the door and recoiled.
He was hit by the pungent smell of unwashed skin mixed with a strong waft of stale alcohol fumes. He leaned into the car, put his hand on the man’s shoulder and pulled him back into his seat.
“Rick Delaney,” Elisabeth said from behind him. She had come to stand at Michael’s side. “The ex-CEO of Beirsdorf Klein, also a member of the Bilderberg Group. Blamed me for destroying his bank. Although, I must say, he did a pretty good job of that himself.”
An ambulance siren sounded in the distance. There was no movement from the car. The ambulance needn’t have hurried.
Chapter 106
Rivulets of condensation trickled down the outside of the frosted glass revealing the straw-colored liquid within. The waiter stepped away from the table. Michael glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes late. He’d felt distance grow between them since Ladoga. Part of him hoped that things would have gone the other way. A big part. Dinner together was his way of trying to turn things around. They’d agreed to meet in the hotel bar at seven and take a walk across the road to a well-recommended Italian place.
He left the newly arrived beer on the table and made his way over to the reception desk. He stood impatiently for five minutes while a group of other guests checked in. It didn’t improve his mood.
“Yes, sir, how can I help you?” the young woman’s maniacal smile made him edgier still.
“I’d like you to put me through to your guest in 308. Tereza Vass.”
“Yes, sir, certainly. One moment.”
The cheerful receptionist dialed the number and was poised to pass the phone to Michael.
“Sir, excuse me, but this guest checked out already.”
“She can’t have. Please take another look,” said Michael.
The receptionist, smile disappeared having finally picked up on Michael’s irritability, browsed the screen in front of her.
“I’m sorry, sir, Ms. Vass checked out over two hours ago. Four forty-five. Is there anything else?”
Michael didn’t hear her last words. His mind churned through the possibilities. One of these rose to the top of the pile.
Michael ran to the end of the corridor and into the hotel’s business center. He positioned himself behind one of the computers. Switched it on. He should be able to dial into the system remotely as long as he used the right password. He input the username jayrivello. Then Guszti. The familiar Bloomberg logo flashed up on the screen. He hit enter and went straight to Rivello’s account.
There had been no one watching the two of them through the window at the house on Lake Ladoga. She had lied. The last trades on the account had indeed been executed on that morning. But they hadn’t been made by Michael. The trades Michael had put through the system had been reversed. A set of new instructions had been issued just moments later.
Twenty-five billion euros had been vaulted into cyberspace at the press of a button.
END
Thanks for taking the time to read my novel. I hope that you enjoyed it. Feedback is incredibly important for any novelist, particularly for new authors. I’d really appreciate it if you could review The Paper Factory at whichever Amazon site you bought it from:
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Norrie
The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1) Page 28
